A Day On the Sick Sad Job
by abe1803
Summary: Daria and Jane have recently been hired at 'Sick, Sad World': Daria is away interviewing a cowboy, while Jane works in her cubicle.  Chapter 1 was previously a standalone titled 'A Sick Sad Interview'.
1. Chapter 1

**A Day On the Sick Sad Job - Part 1: Daria** in **The Interview**, by abe

_Daria, a newly-hired reporter/interviewer for "Sick, Sad World," hears the story of a cowboy who has returned from a 'mysterious' disappearance._

**NOTE:** This _Part 1_ originally appeared as a "complete" ficlet, titled **A Sick Sad Interview**, until I wrote _Part 2_ and realized that it was too closely intertwined to be considered anything but a second part of the same story... resulting in this combined and retitled two-parter.

This ficlet grew out of a combination of two sources:  
(1) the Jane and Daria alter-egos at the end of "Is It College Yet" (see "Good Mornings with Daria n Jane" by S.C. on DeviantArt for a fanart version, with the Fashion Club and Chuck added as employees); and  
(2) The Angst Guy's story "Drive," available via Outpost Daria, wherein the show "Good Mornings with Daria and Jane" is part of the _Sick Sad News_ network.

It occurred to me to wonder what it might be like at the very beginning, just after Daria started work at _Sick, Sad World_.

Note that my story _cannot_ be considered a prequel to "Drive," since in The Angst Guy's story the path to Daria and Jane's hosting of that show began with Jane's all-night disk jockey job in her sophomore year at college (with Jane then talking Daria into joining her on the air).

Disclaimer: MTV and Glenn Eichler own Daria, Jane, and _Sick, Sad World_, I don't; no money changes hands, etc. etc. etc.

—abe

So, without further ado:

* * *

**A Day On the Sick Sad Job**

**Part 1: Daria**

in

**The Interview**

The blinding glare and oven-heat of the midday sun were tempered somewhat by the windows and a straining air-conditioner; Daria couldn't consider herself to be comfortable, but it was at least... not completely intolerable. _How did I get myself into this situation, anyway? Oh yes, of course: Jane. "Hey, they've got positions available for a junior reporter/interviewer and an assistant animator/graphics artist! With any luck, we can work there together!" and "Come on, it's **Sick, Sad World!**" So we get hired, and they stick Jane in a cubicle in an office building, doing stuff only very distantly related to her art, and send me all the way out to this one-horse town to interview some nut-case._

_It's not really fair to blame Jane, though. After months of trying to find somebody who'd hire a recently-graduated Journalism major, I pretty much jumped at the opportunity myself, when it became clear they were seriously considering hiring me..._

_Ah, finally; the guy I've been waiting to interview. He seems to be limping a bit..._

"So you're wonderin' where I've been for the past four days?"

_No, I couldn't care less. But my boss tells me, "We got a tip that a retired ex-rodeo-circuit cowboy disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and re-appeared after a few days with a weird tale about what happened to him. Go and get us the story." So here I am..._

"Well, here's what happened. Y'see, me and a few friends was sittin' in the back of the bar last Friday afternoon, drinkin' and talkin' about our bronco-bustin' and steer-ridin' days; and the long and the short of it is, I made a bet with Sam Standish that I could still hang on for at least three minutes, on the back of any beast he cared to name..."

_Talk about your sucker bets! From what I know about it — admittedly, not much — even for an experienced man in the prime of his career, the odds would be against it. And this guy looks reasonably fit, but judging from his face, hair, and hands, he's probably closer to sixty than fifty, or maybe even older than that. How much had he been drinking?_

"So the next mornin' we headed out to an old paddock on the west side of town, to settle our bet. But when we got there, I couldn't believe my eyes! I'd been expectin' Sam to bring out some ornery horse or half-wild steer, but no; somehow, that blasted schemer had got hold of a kangaroo!"

_A kangaroo? Yeah, right. I doubt there's even the smallest of zoos within a couple of hundred miles, let alone a zoo with kangaroos._

"Mebbe he got it from that zoo in Mercerville, down the road a ways. But that's neither here nor there."

_O.K., perhaps I'm wrong about the zoo. It should be easy enough to find out whether they've got any kangaroos there, and if so whether any of them have disappeared recently._

"The beast jest sort of sat there on its hind legs near the far side of the paddock, leanin' forward jest a little and bouncin' up and down a bit. I figured right then I'd soon be sayin' good-bye to my money; but my Dad never raised no quitter, so I'd give it my best try. I knew I had only the one chance. I snuck quietly 'round the paddock behind the kangaroo and leaped onto its back, flingin' my arms 'round its neck and my legs 'round its belly."

_Sneaking up behind a kangaroo without it noticing, close enough to jump on its back? Two chances of that: slim and none. And that's being generous._

"Well, the beast sure didn't like that none. It took off like a jumpin' jack, shot over the paddock fence like it was nothin', and bounced off through the woods as if it was bein' chased by Ol' Scratch hisself, with me still clingin' tight as I could to its back."

_Kangaroos aren't **that** big. Maybe they wouldn't collapse under the weight of a man, but I doubt they would be very mobile either. I wonder how I could find out the weight-carrying capacity of a kangaroo..._

"In the end I did lose my grip and got shook off, but that musta been at _least_ twenty minutes later; and by then the beast had carried me 'most all the way to Arborville. I landed kinda rough, so they took me to the Arborville General to heal up, and didn't let me out 'til now."

_Arborville; I expect that's what passes for the big city in these parts. Perhaps he went to the red light district there that weekend, and threw out his back or had some other accident, then had to make up something to tell his wife. Is he married? That shouldn't be too hard to find out. And if I went about it right, I could probably find out whether he actually was at the Arborville Hospital, and if so, possibly even what he was treated for._

"Well, I gotta be goin' — I'm off to see ol' Sam about a little matter of a bet..."

_Come to think of it, can he really be such a stereotypical cowboy? Or was he just acting the stereotype, to make for a better story? Is he even a cowboy at all, or someone trying to act the part in the hopes of getting on TV with this story? It really shouldn't take much digging to find out._

_Oh, hell, who am I trying to kid about checking things out? I knew what this job entailed when I took it. It's a good thing I've had plenty of experience writing fiction..._

_Hmm... actually, you could consider his story to be a pretty classic example of a Tall Tale, and not too badly told at that, skirting just close enough to the boundaries of the possible that one doesn't immediately fall down in derisive laughter._

Daria paused for a moment as a thought struck her. _I bet Jane will be inspired to create some pretty surreal paintings when I tell her about this. Maybe cowboys on kangaroo-back herding a flock of emus? Nah, nothing as tame as that, I'm sure..._

She opened a window on her laptop, and started to type. 


	2. Chapter 2

**A Day On the Sick Sad Job - Part 2: Jane** in **The Cubicle**, by abe

_While Daria is out of town, Jane has been having a difficult day at "Sick, Sad World."_

For some time, I had had an idea for a sequel to _Part 1_ (originally titled "A Sick Sad Interview"); but it might never have been written if it had not been for a Christmas vacation, without work or the internet to consume my time, but _with_ a pad and a pen... Not my preferred way of writing, but _time_ is the most important requirement.

This sequel (_Part 2_) turned out to be sufficiently closely intertwined with the original ficlet that I could only consider them to be two parts of the same story.

As before, this story now seems complete, but I can't _completely_ rule out further chapters.

Disclaimer: MTV and Glenn Eichler own Daria, Jane, and _Sick, Sad World_, I don't; no money changes hands, etc. etc. etc.

* * *

**A Day On the Sick Sad Job**

**Part 2: Jane**

in

**The Cubicle**

It was shaping up to be a really bad day, Jane realized, as she stared at the unappetizing meal spread across her lunch tray. The cafeteria two floors below her cubicle was usually a source of fairly good — and occasionally excellent — food, but it had failed her today.

_Maybe the usual cook's off sick,_ Jane thought. _Or maybe... 'Next on Sick, Sad World: crazed assistant cooks who serve up their boss for lunch.'_ She inspected the mystery meat again. _If so, that assistant cook is as incompetent as he is crazy._ And the lunch was just one more blow from fate, which seemed to have it in for her today.

Jane's job at _Sick, Sad World_ had not proved to be as interesting as she had hoped, when she had first urged Daria to join her in applying for the two positions that had been simultaneously advertised there. Still, even though some of her work was mechanical enough that she could have done it in her sleep, and some merely consisted of running errands, there was usually enough room for her creativity to express itself in some way. But not this morning. The entire morning, and in fact most of the preceding day, had been spent in work technically exacting enough to require her full attention, but so repetitive and boring that she almost welcomed her growing headache as a distraction. "May the person in Production who thought up this abomination be forced to wade through it a hundred times in a row," Jane muttered under her breath.

Her cubicle-mates were not unpleasant, as a rule. In fact, one of them, Miranda, had become something of a friend. She was not in any way comparable to Daria, of course, but she had enough of a sense of the absurd that Jane's trademark repartee — and even Daria's — was not met with blank incomprehension. Unfortunately, Miranda's contract had expired a few days ago, and she had left to take up a job on the other side of the country. And her replacement, who had shown up for the first time that morning, was a definite step downwards. _No, more than a step,_ Jane thought. _A tumble, a fall from a precipice._ The new guy — _what was his name? Richard? Robert? Something with an "R," anyway_ — was both sleazy and pushy. He had interrupted her several times that morning with stale banter and lame pick-up lines, distracting her enough from her work that she had had to redo several parts — and it had been boring enough the first time she did it. So far, her sharpest put-downs had worked only temporarily on him; each time, he had been back within the hour to try again.

Normally, even such a morning could have been lightened by a few of Daria's dry remarks over lunch. But Daria was off interviewing a cowboy in some far-away mid-western town. And Miranda, who might have made an acceptable substitute as a lunch companion, was of course no longer at _Sick, Sad World_. Most of Jane's other cubicle-mates were sitting together, still gossiping about the latest pop band which two of them had seen live in concert the previous night.

Jane's co-workers were better than most of the teenagers she had known — and avoided — in high school. She might usually have been able to tolerate, if not truly enjoy, their pop-band effusions; but after the morning she had just had — **no**. The only thing that could be worse would be — _Oh, fuck!_ Jane thought. _I just jinxed myself: the "sleazy R" really is coming to try to join me for lunch..._

The afternoon brought no relief. Jane finished the last mind-numbing section of her project, and prepared to move on to something more interesting... only to have her supervisor tell her that Production had changed their minds about what they wanted, and the entire project would have to be redone to their new — but equally boring — specifications. _Well, there goes the afternoon, and most of tomorrow as well,_ Jane thought, as her headache redoubled its attack. _Just in case I ever encounter the Fate who has scripted this day for me, I'll have to put some thought into just how to pay her back. Didn't Daria once describe to me the best way to disembowel someone? Or was it eviscerate?_ And there was the "sleazy R," waiting to intercept her as she made her way back to her cubicle. _Another candidate for evisceration: after all, practice makes perfect..._

Finally the work-day dragged its way to an end. Jane evaded the "sleazy R" for one last time, and set out for home in the car she co-owned with Daria. Daria's absence from her usual shot-gun seat weighed a bit on Jane's mood, but at least the fresh air from her open window relieved her headache. And soon she would be home, with no supervisor to reign in her artistic inspiration. Daria would be arriving on a late-evening flight: Jane would not be leaving to pick her up until nearly midnight. There would be plenty of time to rescue her day from the workplace blahs with something creative and fun.

Arriving home, Jane ignored her stomach's vote for a filling and at least nominally edible meal, in favor of setting up her easel. She hurried through the preparation of her paints, and...

...Nothing.

...More nothing.

...And yet more nothing.

Not a line, not a splotch, not a splatter could she bring herself to summon onto the pristine canvas. Its empty whiteness seemed to mock her as she stood, frustrated, before it.

No smidgeon of relief was brought by an hour of alternately pacing about the room, and staring staring blankly at the canvas... which stared blankly back at her, as free of paint as when she had started. A second hour was faring no better... till at last Jane threw her brush down in disgust and turned her back on the canvas's accusing glare.

With the widening of her focus, her stomach's demands, more urgent than before, finally reached her attention. Still largely preoccupied with her art — or rather, her distressing lack thereof — she distractedly opened a can of stew and began to spoon it up cold from the can. A vagrant thought crossed her mind: _It's a good thing Daria is around, or there probably wouldn't have been a bite of food in the place._ A moment of gratitude for Daria's existence was soon pushed from her mind, as Jane's missing muse again took up the forefront of her thoughts.

Eventually, Jane decided she would just have to follow the advice she had given Daria in a similar situation, when a recalcitrant essay had been refusing to progress beyond its first sentence. "It's just a question of who's going to be the master, you or the words," Jane had said, adapting the exhortation of _Alice_'s Humpty Dumpty. Ignoring the fact that Daria had found this advice to be less than helpful, Jane determinedly faced her canvas again, brush in hand.

Alas, the blank canvas's glare proved more daunting than Jane's, and the paint masterfully avoided Jane's brush. But Jane was adamant: she would not submit to intimidation from mere matter, even such matter as might be molded into the form of **art**. For nearly another hour she sustained her waning determination... and then it was time to leave to pick up Daria. The alarm that Daria had programmed was a positive relief, rather than the intrusion Jane would usually have considered it.

When programming the alarm, Daria had considered Jane's reluctance to abandon her art. (In fact, there had been an entire series of programmed alarms, to ensure that Jane did not return to her painting or sculpting for "a few minutes" that might stretch into a few hours. Jane was much more reliable than Trent, but she did get caught up in her artistic projects upon occasion.) However, Jane's encounter with artist's block had not encouraged her to tarry, and she actually arrived early at the airport... to find that Daria's plane was delayed. Still, eventually Daria appeared, her weary pace quickening as she in turn caught sight of Jane waiting for her. A quick hug turned into a prolonged one, and Jane's spirits rose considerably.

When Jane and Daria had first met in high school, Daria had been an uncompromisingly non-tactile person, preferring to avoid being touched or (as she sometimes put it) "mauled" by even such a close friend as Jane had quickly become. But after Jane had left home to attend college in Boston, she had found that she missed the frequent hugs from her brother Trent much more than she had anticipated. So she had set out to "train" Daria to accept — and even enjoy, little though she would usually admit it — a hug at the end of the day, when they returned from their separate colleges to meet at their shared apartment. Jane had never been more glad of this than she was now, with Daria's warm presence bringing the promise of light and color into the end of a day that hitherto had been limned in a dull and miserable shade of gray.

"So how did the interview with the cowboy go?" Jane asked as she accelerated out of the airport's short-term parking. "Did he yield any interesting _Sick, Sad_ absurdities?"

"He did indeed," Daria said. "But I'm not repeating any of it to you until we're back home. You seem tired and stressed enough that we might end up in a ditch if my tale distracted you."

"Hey!" Jane objected. "I'm perfectly capable of driving and talking — or listening — at the same time!"

"I suppose that's why you just turned right instead of left," Daria said dryly. "Home's almost directly behind us now, you know."

Jane's subsequent protests as she made an illegal U-turn may have been somewhat lacking in conviction. At any rate, they arrived back at their apartment with Daria's story still untold.

As Daria had anticipated, her tale proved rather more than merely distracting. Jane managed to gasp out, "A cowboy riding a k-k-kangaroo?" as she attempted to rise from the bed onto which her fit of laughter had dropped her. Then, as her laughter trailed off, an intent look suddenly came over her. In turn, a small but affectionate smile flitted over Daria's face: she knew what was going to happen next. Daria's story had sparked Jane's muse, and Jane would be immersing herself in her art for a while. And indeed, Jane headed straight for her easel, ignoring all else.

This time, Jane smiled eagerly as she faced her canvas. It no longer stared blankly back at her, but instead seemed almost to quiver in anticipation of a myriad of artistic possibilities.

Daria was back. Jane's muse was back. All was right with the world.

Jane picked up her brush and began to paint. 


End file.
